


The Seventy-Fifth Annual Pandimensional Hellspawn and Friends Holiday Bruncheon

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Interdimensional Crossover, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: This Michael chap was so dashedlycharming, and seemingly a bowtie aficionado to boot, that Aziraphale couldn't resist the urge to offer him a bit of encouragement.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	The Seventy-Fifth Annual Pandimensional Hellspawn and Friends Holiday Bruncheon

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! This little idea has been buzzing round my head for a couple of years now. Hope you enjoy :)

Aziraphale had to admit: the décor wasn't bad.

Burning crucifixes: check. Enflamed topiaries: check. Smoldering puddings and poodles and punches of all kinds: check. And yes, there was even smoking bishop: caramelized oranges drenched in a bath of cheap red wine and synthesized cinnamon.

Also, there was smoking archbishop. Smoking beadle. Smoking cardinal. Smoking pope. And smoking wassat-name-for-who's-bigger-than-the-pope-cuz-it's-Christmas-and-that.

For this was Hell. And Hell always had a soft spot for the classics.

"Yes," Aziraphale sighed. "There's no arguing it. I've not seen such an eye for detail since Kubrick ascended."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Kubrick's knee-deep in shrimp cocktail," he said. Then: "Some guys from one of the _other_ dimensions brought a bunch of 'Great Moments in Moviemaker Torture' dioramas with them. Showoffs."

"You mean... Oh." Ah. And so there _was_ old Stanley, in all his life-sized, disconcertingly-realistic, peculiarly-fishy glory. And then: "Hitchcock?"

"Salmon mousse."

"Um."

"Ed Wood's still unaccounted for."

"You mean he's encased in halibut... Or..."

"No."

Aziraphale was content to leave it at that. He was _glad_ to be here with Crowley. 

Putting too much thought into the exact whys and wherefores of this, his first Pandimensional Hellspawn and Friends Holiday Bruncheon – (the seventy-fifth of which had ever been held – seventy of which had been held at a Bennigan's in Akron, Ohio – three of which had been held at Gail from Accounting's gran's place in Ipswitch, Suffolk, England – one of which had been cancelled due to a glitch on the web-based registration form – and one of which, this very one, in fact, was being held in a shabby nightclub in Dis, Outer Plane, Hell) – would be, he considered quite reasonably, a mistake.

This went doubly for making any divisive comments on the myriad human and not-so-human-shaped entities in attendance.

Nibbles, on the other hand, seemed fair game. Aziraphale tilted his head and asked, "D'you suppose there're any more of those delightful toffee crumbles left?"

"The ones over there by the scalding hot antimatter dispenser? You do realize Lechies brought those, right? He's mostly goat."

"Tasted just fine to me."

"All right, all right. I guess I could do with a few more, myself," said Crowley. Then he set his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, "If anyone comes over here asking where the loo is, don't look them in the eye, don't make any gestures with your hands, and _definitely_ don't try to answer them. You just can't trust these sorts of folks."

"How am I supposed to—"

"I don't know, angel. Get creative." Crowley's eyes widened behind the rims of his sunglasses. Then he smiled and leaned in for a too-short kiss before whispering in Aziraphale's ear, "Pretend you only speak in tongues."

Aziraphale blanched. But before he could argue the point, Crowley was walking away towards the sweets table. "Tongues," he grumbled under his breath. "As if I wasn't in fact proficient in over two million forms of communication. _Three_ if you count all the sub-sublanguages... and Esperanto."

"Esperanto. The most widely spoken constructed international auxiliary language on Earth, created by Polish ophthalmologist L. L. Zamenhof in 1887 in the hope of bringing about a new era of peace and understanding among all people," chirped a voice to Aziraphale's side. He turned to find an affable, neatly dressed woman staring back at him. Then: "Hi. I'm Janet."

Aziraphale raised a hand in a timid wave. "Hello, Janet. I must say, I didn't expect to meet anyone of such obvious intellectual pedigree this morning. Er. That is, between you and me, you don't exactly look like you _belong_ here."

"Neither do you," Janet said, almost gleefully, "but you're here as a plus-one to one A.J. Crowley, a nice sort of demon. I'm here because a _not so nice_ sort of demon kidnapped me from my warehouse so that I could help him administer his nefarious plan to trick unwitting humans into thinking they've died and gone to the Good Place, when in fact they're being tortured for all eternity in the Bad Place."

"Um," said Aziraphale.

Then: "There you are, Janet!" an equally smartly dressed man panted as he trotted up to them. "Jeez, you had me worried sick. I thought you might've fallen into the Hallmark Channel Holiday Blackhole Generator again." The man turned to Aziraphale. "Sorry, she's only been booted up for a couple of days. I hope she hasn't said anything... awkward."

"I just gave him the outline of your Neighborhood plan, Michael," Janet said. "You did say you wanted to get a second opinion on it."

" _Janet_ ," Michael groaned. He lifted his glasses to rub at the tender flesh between his eyes. Then he looked up, appearing to consider Aziraphale more closely. "Oh. You're from up there," he said, motioning with a pointed finger, "aren't you?"

"Well, I—" Aziraphale hesitated. "Yes. Technically. That is to say, _before_. My name is Aziraphale."

Michael's mouth stretched into a magnanimous smile. "Great to meet you. Really great. So: what d'you think?"

"I think it has potential," Aziraphale offered, at length.

"Yeah? You're not just saying that to be nice?"

Aziraphale folded his hands together before him, carefully considering his words. In fact, he found the idea of tricking humans in such a way utterly appalling. And yet this Michael chap was so dashedly _charming_ , and seemingly a bowtie afficionado to boot, that he couldn't resist the urge to offer him a bit of encouragement. So: "Not at all."

"Wow. That—that's _great_. I've got to tell you—Can I call you Aziraphale? Aziraphale, you're just about the _nicest_ angel I've ever met!"

Janet perked up. "Aziraphale is technically a Principality."

Aziraphale felt himself blushing.

Michael shook his head wonderingly. "Listen, if you're ever in the market for a side-gig, Aziraphale, give me a ring. This Neighborhood project has potential for multi-universal expansion. _Real_ potential. You know, if your dimension's Antichrist thing goes ash over tarts. Sorry. Force of habit." He grinned as if greatly amused by his own joke. "Arse over tits."

"You _know_ about the Antichrist?" Aziraphale balked, despite himself.

"Yeah. Everyone does. There was a whole write-up on it in the last interdepartmental bulletin. Pretty archetypal-sounding stuff, I've gotta say."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. Then: "Thank you."

As discreetly as he could, he scanned the room for Crowley.

Janet followed his gaze for a moment before offering, "Over by the karaoke machine."

And indeed, not only was he by the karaoke machine, he was working very hard to _extract_ himself from it by way of thrusting the microphone away from himself and into the clawed hands of a short, multi-horned, violet-colored demonic amalgam dressed up in rather a fetching pinstripe suit.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, narrowing his eyes and _willing_ Crowley to look at him.

"Wait—how do _you_ know Trevor?" Michael asked.

"Trevor?" Aziraphale repeated. "Ah, no: the gentleman in the glasses is a very old acquaintance of mine. In fact, he's my..."

"Soul mate?"

"Hm?"

Michael laughed, his glasses flashing in the abundant firelight. "Nothing. It's just—Well. A little something I've been working on. For the Neighborhood!"

Janet laughed too.

And, not exactly sure why, nor quite willing to stop himself, so did Aziraphale.


End file.
